


the hidden language of the soul

by awakeanddreaming



Series: chosen to be a dancer (and with that I live my life) [1]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/F, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 13:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20742791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awakeanddreaming/pseuds/awakeanddreaming
Summary: It’s a love story.





	the hidden language of the soul

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very special to me and it took me a very long time to feel like I could do it justice. Nearly a year, in fact. 
> 
> I first had the idea for this work back in October last year, but didn’t think anyone would want to read it. Then, in December I decided to write down a few scenes and a character profile. Then, those few scenes sat in a word doc for months, relatively untouched. I had other projects, things that would be more popular. I was afraid no one would like my idea. 
> 
> The past two weeks I sat myself down and said I’m finishing this for myself. And nine months after I opened the doc, I finished the work. 
> 
> I would like to thank Miss_Six for all her help getting me through writing the last two weeks, when I needed constant validation she was there. Thank you! And to only_because3 and iwantthemtostay for giving this a read and betaing for me, thank you!
> 
> And lastly, to K for all your encouragement and support. I know you didn’t think you’d be a help, but you were.
> 
> Work title is a Martha Graham quote: “Dance is the hidden language of the soul.”
> 
> *Editing* to add a spoiler that VM are not endgame in this work, so if that’s not what you’re up to reading today I understand. There is no angst in this story and they have a beautiful, beyond words love and friendship and it is highlighted here. This has a happy ending, just not the one you might be used to.

“You’ll really like her,” Marie says, stirring the wooden stick around in her coffee. Steam rises over the rim, and she blows it off, sending it swirling across the table while more gathers to take its place.

Tessa breathes in the rich aroma of her own coffee, and sips on the delicate foam floating on top, “I trust you, Marie. I’m tired of doing the same thing,” she pauses. “We’re tired,” she amends.

“Emmy is a brilliant contemporary choreographer, you’ll love her style,” Marie says, sipping her coffee. There’s an excited lilt to the way she says the name, and she smiles at Tessa like she knows something, what Tessa isn’t sure.

The early autumn sun is filtering in through the café window, softened by the window decal with the café logo. Tessa taps her own wooden stir stick against the table in tune to the song playing softly in the background. This is one of countless conversations shared like this. Planning for a comeback, a return to competitive life that is getting farther and farther away from just being a pipe dream. But if they do this, they have to entirely dismantle everything they know and build from the ground up. That includes how they dance.

“Do you have any videos of her choreography?” she asks.

“I have something better,” Marie smiles at Tessa, it’s a warm smile. “She teaches an advanced modern class tonight, over by the University. I told her you were coming.”

**  
The studio isn’t hard to find. It’s in an old building near Concordia with tall windows that don’t open, creaky stairs, and smells pervasively like wood stain. The class is on the second floor in a big room that faces the street.

It’s easy to find, but traffic in Montreal sucks so she’s late anyways. She hates being late. Really hates being late. Especially when she is making a first impression. She bustles into the building in a gust, like the leaves on the street blowing in the wind, the door slams behind her. She rushes up the steps, taking them two at a time. She’s in leggings (plain black ones that look a bit more casual) and a loose sweater thrown over a tight tank top—she isn’t sure if she is going to be taking the class or just observing, so she dressed for both.

The door of the studio is ajar and the murmur of warm up conversations drift gently out into the hall. She is just about to put her hand on the doorknob and push it the rest of the way open when a string of expletives shoots out of the room, like gunfire ringing out over the delicate hum of voices.

She opens the door and steps into the room unnoticed—all eyes are on the front of the room, smiles and laughter spreading across faces as the cursing continues. The cause, she notices, of the big words is tiny.

The teacher is standing at the front of the room, next to the wall of mirrors, her back to the class. Long thick auburn hair is escaping from a loose braid, a wide necked sweater slips over a shoulder, and her leggings are rolled up to mid calf—the right a little more than the left, exposing a small tattoo on her right leg. She is small but not necessarily delicate. Tessa can see the definition of muscles through her leggings, strong legs made for jumping. But right now they are standing on tiptoes to reach the built in stereo system as the person they belong to continues to curse under her breath at the speakers—as if that would improve the situation. She finds she likes her already and she hasn’t even turned around.

The class continues their chatter as the woman at the front—who Tessa assumes must be Emmy—is still fiddling with the sound system, trying to get her iPhone hooked up and playing through the speakers.

“Every fucking week,” she grumbles. Then back still turned she directs the class, “Keep doing some gentle stretches, I trust you all know what you need...once I get the music to play we can move right into a quick warm up and then corner work. I have a new step sequence I want to try.”

Tessa sneaks further into the room, standing at the back near the door, unsure if she should make her presence known. She decides against it, quietly observing the friendly conversation as the dancers stretch and warm up on the floor. There are ten in total, most look to be university aged save for the two women closest to her who are probably around thirty, doing quad stretches while talking animatedly about the one’s recent engagement.

The music finally starts to play and the woman at the front turns around and Tessa is struck by an overwhelming sense of warmth and familiarity. Emmy’s eyes meet hers and it’s like being caught in flames. Everything about her reminds Tessa of the sun, from the way her auburn hair shimmers copper as she moves into the light, to the warmth of her eyes, dark but ringed with amber and flecks of gold. She smiles at Tessa, her cheeks pinking and pushing up into her eyes.

“Hi Tess, Marie told me you were coming. I’m so glad you could make it.” Her voice is so bright and genuine it literally lights up the room.

**  
Tessa does end up taking the class, but she finds herself watching Emmy more than anything else—missing half her cues because she’s either staring, or listening to the careful way that she corrects other students.

Emmy is an amazing teacher. She somehow seems to see everyone. All at once. And knows almost instinctively what each dancer needs to hear. She gently puts a hand on one of the younger girl’s backs, between her shoulders and the tension in her shoulders dissipates and she’s able to get proper extension in her arms.

“Remember,” she says, as she circles the room. “Your movement always starts from the breath. Remember to breathe, and open your body up from there.”

Then they are doing corner work, and as much as Tessa’s natural ability to move and her ballet background helps her, she can’t keep up. The style is so different from what she’s used to. Emmy explains they are studying Graham technique this class.

“You’ll get it though,” she says, putting both hands on her shoulders, giving a squeeze. “You dance beautifully, just think of grounding yourself, pressing your feet into the ground and you’re travelling using the momentum of your falling leg.”

Tessa is shaking her head. But Emmy just smiles at her. “I know it’s daunting,” she says. “Your used to controlled movements. This is like falling through space and trusting your body to catch you.”

She does it with Tessa once, explaining each movement as she does and that’s all she needs. Something clicks and on the next pass she’s moving, falling, with the rest of the class. It’s freeing.

**  
She’s pacing the length of her hotel room, her phone pressed between her shoulder and her ear and she can hear Scott shifting around on the other end. His voice gets distant, garbled like he’s underwater and she knows he’s put his phone down and walked away to do something while still talking. She doesn’t know how many times she’s told him that the speaker on his phone only picks up his voice at a certain distance. She smiles, a little exasperated, and shakes her head, almost knocking her phone off her shoulder.

“So,” he says, his voice closer again. “The class last night was good? You think she’s a good fit for choreography for us?”

She sits down on the edge of her bed, crosses one leg over the other and nods. It takes her a moment or two before she realizes he can’t see her nodding. “Yeah, Yeah. It was great. She was really, really great.”

“Really, really?” He asks, she can hear the smile in his voice, can picture the exact way his lips are curving up into a smirk, eyebrows quirking up in that silly, overly animated way that they do. “Must have been quite the class.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes even though he can’t see. “It was. Such a high energy class, I felt totally out of shape though. I’ll have to take some more dance classes with her. But it was awesome and she did some choreo at the end that was so good...and,” she rushes out, “she has this way of explaining movements that just make them click the first time.”

“You sound a bit smitten,” he says and she can hear a crunch through the speaker like he’s eating something.

“I’m not smitten...I—nope—that’s not—nope...” she realizes that she is stumbling over her words and that isn’t helping her case. “I’m just excited to be working with someone different.”

She walks over to the mirror and fusses a bit with some stray pieces of hair, runs her thumb under her bottom lip, smoothing out a smudge of pink lipstick. Her hair is up in a top knot and she’s done minimal makeup and thrown her leather jacket over a t-shirt. She appraises herself in the mirror. She looks younger, she thinks, with nothing around her eyes but mascara, the t-shirt poking under her jacket says MOOD and is half tucked into her jeans.

“Mhm,” Scott answers through the line, though it’s muffled. He’s definitely eating. She hears him swallow. “Bet she’s pretty,” he says.

“Yeah.” Her answer is quick. It’s automatic, said entirely without her realizing it. She hates how he does that. She tries to veer the conversation in a different direction. “Actually, I kind of know her already.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s a playful lilt to his voice.

“Yeah. I don’t know if you’d remember it was a long time ago, but she was my roommate at the National Ballet camp when we were kids. Her name is Emmy and we’re having coffee in a bit, to catch up.”

She can hear him laughing over the line, his low chuckle when he finds his own thoughts or jokes amusing. “That’s even more perfect Virtch! It’s like a love story already 16 years in the making.”

“I’m hanging up now!” she says, grabbing her purse from the dresser and heading toward the door.

“Come on T, it’s cute,” she knows he’s still smirking.

“Bye Scott.”

“Have a good time,” he laughs again. “We can have girl talk after your date.”

She hangs up and walks out the door.

**  
She is waiting in the café Emmy suggested, swirling her finger around the rim of the stoneware mug, admiring the the foam leaf floating on top of her latte. The interior of the café is warm, cozy, with a hodgepodge of vintage armchairs and tables and bookshelves filled with used books and board games to be lent. There is a second coffee across the table from her and she feels a bit self- conscious about it.

She doesn’t usually order for others, honestly half the time she lets Scott order for her—he tends to knows what she wants better than she does, as she changes her mind all the time. But when the barista was describing how he makes the vanilla latte with real vanilla bean it sounded exactly like something she thought Emmy would love. Which is weird considering they’ve only had two real conversations since they’ve been reintroduced. It’s just a feeling she had like the fluttering of butterflies in her stomach. A feeling that this woman is someone she knows, has never not known.

Emmy comes in like a hurricane, a bluster of wind following her through the door as she tries to shake hair off her face. Her low bun is loose and falling out all over the place. She’s juggling a stack of papers and has a bag across one shoulder, over her loose cable knit sweater, layered over leggings, with tall boots. Her cheeks are flushed, from the cool autumn air, and she scans the room quickly before spotting Tessa, her features settling into a relaxed smile.

“Hi!” she says, pulling out the chair across from Tessa, before working to jam the stack of papers in her hands into her bag. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I had office hours...I’m an instructor for choreography, mainly, but I do have some dance physiology classes as a teaching assistant. These,” she says, shoving the last of the paper into her bag, “need to be graded.”

“That’s okay,” Tessa answers with a smile, glancing down at the table as she pushes the coffee she got towards Emmy. “I got you a coffee, I hope you don’t mind.”

Emmy picks it up, holding it close to breathe in the aroma. “Vanilla?” she asks, and when Tessa nods she smiles back even more brightly. “My favourite, thank you.”

**  
They’ve been at the café for two hours already—though it hasn’t seemed nearly that long. They’ve been here long enough that Emmy has already gotten up and ordered them each a new drink and a slice of cake to share.

“The chocolate raspberry cake here is to die for,” she had said, as she rose from her chair. “But the slices are huge and it’s so rich, I can never finish it on my own. Wanna share?”

Tessa found herself nodding, maybe too enthusiastically. “Chocolate is my weakness,” she said.

“I will keep that in mind,” Emmy said tossing a bright smile over her shoulder as she walked toward the counter.

Now, back at the little table, drumming her fingers on the side of her mug, only the crumbs of the richest chocolate cake Tessa has ever tasted remaining on the plate between them, Emmy says, “So, why come back?”

Tessa pauses for a minute, picking up a cake crumb on her fingertip and putting it in her mouth. “We didn’t feel done. There is more we want to do,” she shrugs. “For ourselves and for the sport.”

“And for each other?” When Emmy asks the question, her head tilted slightly to the side, it is with a genuine curiosity, there is an openness to her tone, she isn’t prying.

Tessa thinks just for a moment to jump in with an It’s not like that but stops herself short and thinks about what was actually asked and answers honestly, openly, in a way she wouldn’t find herself doing with most people. “In a way, I think, yeah,” she smiles and takes a sip of her coffee. “I mean I’m his biggest fan and vice versa, so I guess we are coming back for each other. To support each other,” she pauses to look up at Emmy, who is nodding along like she completely understands, even though Tessa isn’t entirely sure she understands herself. “Before the last Olympics we weren’t really on the same page. Not supporting each other like we should have. I was trying to figure out parts of myself, who I am...and was focused on that and Scott...Scott I think was just frustrated with our entire situation. We didn’t support each other like we needed to until the very end. So, yeah we definitely want it to be different this time.”

She takes a breath before continuing. “It’s not like how people think though. I don’t really know how to explain it. Us.”

Emmy takes a long sip of her tea, looking up at Tessa over the rim of the mug, under the low café lighting her eyes look nearly the same shade of copper as her hair. “It’s an enigma,” she says, once she’s put her drink down.

Tessa nods, because really, it is. She doesn’t know if there is any sort of equivalent she can compare them to. “Sometimes,” she starts, her voice soft, drifting like the steam from her mug towards Emmy. “Sometimes I think if there were any guy for me...it would be him. But it’s just...it’s not. Not for me. I feel guilty sometimes, that it will never be what people want, what they expect...I wonder if maybe whatever this bond that we do have is...that maybe we were made for each other in what we do...if that makes sense? For skating.”

She feels vulnerable then. Cracked open. Sharing more of herself than she’s used to. It’s something she’s not even sure she’s shared with Scott. But there is something about the way the woman across from her looks her in the eyes and nods, leans in toward her to listen better, that makes Tessa want to spill her soul. It’s a strange feeling. Though, she finds, not unwelcome.

“I think that’s pretty special. Really, really beautiful,” Emmy says, placing her hand over Tessa’s. She doesn’t ask any more about it.

**  
Scott meets Emmy a month and a half after Tessa first took her class. She isn’t sure who she wants to like the other more. If she is more concerned with Scott approving of Emmy (Tessa is set on using her for their choreographer, but won’t--of course--if Scott doesn’t agree) or with Emmy, the childhood friend who she has so easily reconnected with, getting along with Scott and understanding the weird dynamic that is Tessa and Scott. Tessa wants them to fall into easy friendship. Needs them to get along.

It goes (mostly) better than she could have expected.

“So, I get to meet your girl crush,” Scott says as they walk together toward the dance studio. Their strides have fallen easily into sync, because of course they have. She’s felt like they’ve been on the same wavelength on everything for the first time in a long time.

Her eyes widen and she stops in her tracks, shaking her head. He stops too, once pace ahead of her. “Scott,” she says, it isn’t quite a warning or a denial, but somewhere in between.

“Tess,” he laughs lightly, under his breath. “I won’t say that in front of her, promise.”

“She’s not...I’m…not...it’s,” she’s stumbling trying to find the words. It’s not like she’s beyond admitting she is attracted to Emmy; she’s beautiful. Or that she loves spending time with her; she’s funny and kind. They’ve gone for lunch or coffee, even dinner once, every time she’s been to Montreal in the past few weeks. But it’s not a crush. She doesn’t do crushes. Besides, it isn’t like it would ever go anywhere, even if any of her maybe feelings were reciprocated. Can’t. Not before the Olympics.

“Relax Virtch,” he takes a step back towards her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and placing a gentle kiss to the side of her head. “If you like her, I’ll like her.”

Tessa pushes open the door to the dance studio, where Emmy already has music playing and is swaying in tune. Tessa can tell she is marking out the counts in her head by the slight movement of her hand and the little nod of her head to the beat.

As soon as Emmy hears them come in she rises on the balls of her socked feet and spins to face them. She is wearing the softest smile, and it makes Tessa think of a warm blanket on a fall day. She thinks she notices Emmy’s cheeks blush slightly as she looks at her, taking her in. But she has an active imagination, and Scott’s probably getting to her head. She takes a deep breath and shakes her head, loosing her ponytail.

He nudges her and winks. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” he whispers. “You’re pretty easy to love. And I’m pretty likeable myself.”

He leaves her at the door to introduce himself with a face splitting grin.

**  
“You have great turn out,” is the first thing Emmy says to Scott. The words fizz out without her being able to stop them, as soon as she opens her mouth, like a freshly opened soda bottle. Then she flushes and shakes her head. “Sorry. Hi Scott, it’s nice to finally meet you. Tessa has told me a lot about you. I’m Emmy...and I’m getting ahead of myself,” she looks to Tessa as if to say _I’m sorry I’m being weird._

She’s nervous, Tessa can tell. Though she doesn’t think she’s seen her nervous before, not with her big voice and easy smiles. It makes Tessa pause for a second. Did Emmy maybe pick up on the fact that it is important to Tessa from the two of them to get on well? Or is she just concerned for her job, now resting on Scott being as taken by her choreography as Tessa has been? Or, and her heart sinks at the thought, maybe she’s nervous because it’s Scott. Scott with all his charm and charisma.

But then she’s looking just at Tessa, putting her hand on her arm, giving it a gentle squeeze as she says, “How was Toronto last week?”

“Good. Busy.” She looks at the hand still on her arm and smiles before lifting her gaze back up to meet Emmy’s eyes. “Just doing some final sponsorship things before we officially move and start training.”

“I missed you.” She smiles easily, as always, and continues on as if she didn’t just stop Tessa’s heart. She turns to Scott and says, “I was really happy to hear you guys were officially moving here. I’ve been in Montreal a few years now and it’s great. You’ll both love it.”

She lets go of Tessa arm, and claps her hands—getting herself into teacher mode. Tessa wonders if her students are as captivated by Emmy as she is. Do they look forward to her lessons all week? She can’t believe how incredible it is that at barely 26 this woman already has an MFA in dance and is an instructor at a university and is working on completing a second MA in physiology.

“I’ve been playing with two pieces that I think will work really well with your dynamic, and how you both naturally move,” she pauses, and looks to Tessa first and then Scott. “I like to have a story behind my choreography but I always like it to be unique to each dancer, so I want your input as we put it together. The main story of the first piece is two people coming together and supporting one another, even as their lives may drift apart.”

**  
“I’m too out of shape for this,” Scott says after they’ve run through choreography in the studio for the sixth time. He slumps down against the mirror, squirting water from his bottle into his mouth and onto his face. “I can’t keep up with you ladies.”

Emmy laughs, it’s loud and unrestrained, her whole body moving with it as she sweeps her long hair loosely into a scrunchy. “You aren’t doing too bad, Moir.”

He shakes his head and his hair, which is getting long, untamed, whips around his face. “Not doing nearly as well as T, here. She’s amazing.”

Emmy nods, “She really is amazing, isn’t she? Glad we agree on that.”

Tessa blushes and turns to her back to the two of them to get her own water. She’s never known what to do with compliments.

**  
Tessa is one hundred percent dedicated to the comeback—she knows Scott is too. Their programs are coming along better than they ever have before and they’ve completely turned their skating, training and mindsets upside down. Her mind is on the ice ninety percent of the time. She’s always thinking of ways they can improve, how they can push themselves just that little bit more, what is working and what isn’t. Everything she does is filtered through the question of will this help me win the Olympics?

But since the last Olympic cycle she’s learned the importance of balance. She knows that when she is in the rink, when they are at a competition, she is Tessa the (hopefully) best female ice dancer in the world. But she also learned at a young age that when she isn’t on the ice, or in the studio, or at the gym she is just Tessa. Whoever that girl might be.

She’s not naive enough to forget that she still needs to be cognizant of being in training for the Olympics. She wouldn’t put anything in her body that would potentially undermine her success. She wouldn’t go to a bar to “let loose” or pick someone up (not things that are her style anyways). But she knows when she has an off day or two and she needs time to be just Tessa. She’s learned to identify these times and allow herself the freedom to do what she needs.

It will often just be a night to herself with a tub full of hot water, her favourite scented candle and a book filled with rich characters. But other times it will be dinner or a day out with friends or her mom or sister when they visit. A lot of the time it is hanging out with Scott—something they’ve found themselves doing more of lately, he really has become her best friend and she is so grateful for that. But sometimes she’s honestly had enough of him.

“It is perfectly normal to need, to crave, some time away from your partner,” Jean-Francois had told her in one of their sessions. “In fact it’s healthy. Even in a marriage spouses should find their own interests, friends.”

“But we aren’t involved...like that. And we’ve never had issues with separate interests before,” Tessa had said, even though she knew he was well aware of their dynamic, being one of the very few people to know all the details. Though she isn't out publicly or in the skating world--her private life isn't for others interest or consumption--they felt it was imperative for everyone on their team to know.

“I know, Tess,” he had answered patiently. “But you’re different now. And you are still in a similar relationship to a marriage, spending so much time together, and knowing each other so well...it is important to carve out other relationships. Even if that isn’t the focus right now, even if it’s scary. It’s important to get to know that part of who you are Tess.”

She hated how well he could read her. “We are in the middle of an Olympic comeback. I can’t start dating now.”

“Start with friendship, then.”

So, she starts to make more plans with friends who are not Scott, friends who don’t know everything about her, who she can start to explore who she is outside skating with. It just so happens that the friend she most often chooses to do this with is Emmy. Emmy, with her bright as the sun smile, who always seems more than happy to meet Tessa for coffee, or at the market, or out for lunch.

It’s just like when they were first getting reacquainted, before she and Scott officially fell into training mode, when they’d get coffee or lunch anytime Tessa was in town. And after time spent with Emmy, she always feels recharged and ready to face whatever the next challenge is.

**  
Scott had kissed her once. It was years ago now. Somewhere in that delicate, messy period of time between Vancouver and Sochi.

There had been a moment where he’d thought that just maybe...but in the end she hadn’t felt the same. She’d wanted to. Badly. For a long while she’d blamed her relative apathy for the few boyfriends she’d had on Scott, on skating. She had Scott, and there was always this spark of excitement she had with him on the ice, when they were in character. It was something she wanted to replicate but never could.

She’d had always liked the idea of being desired, she liked being liked, feeling wanted. When she was younger she sought out that attention, because it made her feel like maybe she was good enough for something. But she realized more each year, after each brief boyfriend that she never liked any of them. Not like she was told she should. Not like she thought she was supposed to. And she’d always thought the infatuation she had with female celebrities and role models was just admiration. Admiration of talent, appreciation of beauty.

Until Scott kissed her and she thought she would feel the same jolt of anticipation, of excitement she did on the ice when she was playing a character with him. But it didn’t feel like that. Not how she thought it should. There wasn’t a spark. She remembers kissing him back, all the while playing back kiss scenes from movies, from her favourite books in her head and thinking is it supposed to be like this?

And then she’d pulled away, shaking her head. He’d looked at her so wide-eyed and expectant and she’d started to cry. “I think there is something wrong with me,” she said, and she ran away.

They didn’t talk for days. Until Scott finally came to her, all wound up with nerves. “Kiddo, there is nothing wrong with you,” he said and shoved his hands in his pockets. “If you don’t feel how you think you should...it doesn’t make you broken or wrong.”

He’d looked so nervous, like he might throw up, or ruin everything if he said the wrong thing. “T,” he had continued, not able to look at her, “have you...uh...have you ever thought that, um, maybe you’re not straight?”

She’d stared at him, processing.

“I mean,” he tried to crack his signature cocky grin, lightening his tone to joking. She knew he was going for a laugh. “You’re way too into Shakira...and really what straight woman could resist me?” He’d finished with a wink.

She did laugh.

But that was also her big _Oh Fuck!_ moment. The moment she reevaluated everything.

**  
She’s sitting across from Emmy at a restaurant her and Scott have been to a few times over the past 10 months they’ve lived in Montreal. They have a few days off in a row before gearing up for their first grand prix circuit since their return. Scott’s on a date too, she thinks—somewhere across town. A real date, unlike this dinner between friends.

Even though this maybe feels a bit like a real date, with the low lighting, the tea light flickering between them and the several sips of her red wine Emmy has shared, since Tessa refused to order her own. It’s a nice restaurant and Tessa is wearing an off the shoulder black dress, one that hugs her in all the right places, that she’s been waiting for the perfect excuse to wear. Emmy has on dress pants and a satin cami with a V deep enough to compete with some of her and Scott’s costumes—she has to stop herself from tracing the line of tiny freckles dotting her sternum with her eyes.

What strikes her most is the care the other woman, who is normally entirely fresh faced, has taken with her makeup. And it’s not that she finds the striking dark eyes and deep red lipstick more or less beautiful, but the contrast to every other time she’s seen Emmy makes this feel so much more like a date. Like maybe she’s trying to leave an impression on Tessa, just as Tessa is her. It’s working—if that’s her plan.

Emmy takes another slow sip of her wine, and Tessa watches as her lips press against the imprint Tessa’s own pink lipstick left on the glass, when Emmy had offered her a sip.

“Have you ever thought about what it would have been like if you chose ballet?” she asks, replacing her wine on the table.

She has of course. Mostly in a quickly passing thought, when things have been tough. But she knows that she would never not want to do what she does, wouldn’t want to go out and perform without Scott. But she has thought of other things that may have been different, had she continued on in ballet, gone to the NBS, like Emmy had.

“We could have been roommates,” she says and it makes Emmy smile.

“You were definitely my favourite roommate,” Emmy laughs. “You would always sneak Oreos with me, and helped with my bun and made sure I got to class on time.”

“I was so afraid of being late and your hair took forever to get into a bun, it’s always been so long!” It’s been such a long time, but it’s amazing how much she can remember when prompted.

She remembers dipping Oreos in peanut butter because Emmy had just watched The Parent Trap, and that’s what they did in the movie. She remembers Emmy’s collection of scrunchies--an accessory she still wears even now--and trying to help Emmy tie her long, thick, wavy, auburn hair into a bun, even when her own attempt at a perfect ballerina bun was falling out at the sides. She remembers rushing a giggling Emmy out the door after she inevitably got distracted by something.

“I always thought you helped because you liked me,” Emmy fakes offense from across the table.

Tessa laughs at that, lets out a little snort. “I did! I do,” she amends. “But I also hated being late.”

She wonders now, how differently things may have turned out for her had she stuck with ballet and been roommates with Emmy when they were older—entering their teenage years. Would she have figured out and come to terms with her own sexuality sooner, had she had a different experience? She thinks, maybe. Having more girls around her to talk with. Maybe it would have allowed her a closer knit group of friends in her peer group.

Would she have fallen for Emmy the way she has now, when they were teenagers? She’s always had a vivid imagination so she thinks of two gangly, giggling teenage girls laying next to each other in a little dorm, sharing secrets, moving closer, each unsure of the other. Did that hand brush mean something? She wonders if Emmy experienced something like that? She doesn’t know, and even in her mid-twenties is too afraid to blatantly ask her.

Of course it doesn’t matter now. She can’t change the direction her life took, nor would she want to. And though at first it may have put some strain on their relationship, she’s glad to have had Scott helping her figure that out.

**  
“Oh,” Emmy says, leaning over to reach into her purse. “I have something for you.”

Tessa raises an eyebrow in question.

“It’s a book,” Emmy says, placing a paperback on the table, her voice wavers a little. Tessa reads the title, The Best Kind of People. “It just came out, it’s really good. It’s a little intense and a bit heartbreaking but the characters are really raw and real and I thought you might like it. Something to read while you’re travelling next month, maybe.” She shrugs and folds her hands in her lap.

Tessa places her hand on top of the book and looks up at Emmy, the candle flickering between them is catching the amber colours in her eyes, the copper in her hair, like she’s a reflection of the flame. She tries to wrap up all the gratitude she feels into a smile. “Thank you.”

**  
When she gets home, new book clutched to her chest, she lets out a long breath. She’s still smiling from dinner, doesn’t know if she will be able to stop. It doesn’t matter, she thinks, whether it was a date or not. Not when she goes home feeling so light it’s like she’s floating.

She opens the book, just to flip through it. It’s one she’s never heard of so she wants to get an idea of what it’s about. A little scrap of paper falls out, fluttering to the floor. She laughs to herself, remembering Emmy telling her how much she hates defacing books, even for inscriptions.

“I’d rather put a note, or card inside,” she said. “It feels so wrong to mark it up. I wouldn’t even highlight my textbooks.” Tessa had found the quirk strangely endearing.

She picks up the paper, just a lined sheet, torn from a notebook.

_Tess,_

_I think you’ll enjoy this book. If you like her writing, I really, really hope you’ll like her other novel, it’s called Bottle Rocket Hearts. Look it up._

_\--Emmy_

Tessa grabs her phone to look up the other book. She honestly almost drops her phone and doesn’t know if she should laugh as she reads the goodreads description in a hushed voice to herself.

_“Bottle Rocket Hearts, the first novel from former Montrealer Zoe Whittall, who now lives in Toronto, follows the life of Eve, a gay (though occasionally sexually omnivorous) young woman on the cusp of adulthood, as she negotiates life and love in Montreal in the mid-1990s.”_

She shakes her head, and measures her breathing. It doesn’t have to mean something, she reminds herself. It’s just a book recommendation, not a secret code.

**

“If I didn’t know you so well,” Scott says, pulling her into a close hold. “I’d think you were being purposely obtuse.”

“Obtuse,” she huffs, falling into step with him. “Someone has been working on their vocabulary.”

Scott shakes his head as they travel together across the ice. “Tessa Jane, it’s flirting. Literally everyone but you can tell that it’s flirting.”

Tessa closes her eyes for a moment, under the harsh artificial light, allowing Scott to guide her around the rink. She just finished telling Scott about her weekend—he had gone home to Ilderton for a short visit and she had another dinner with Emmy.

“You weren’t there, Scott,” she opens her eyes again, leaning her head against him as they skate to the boards. “It’s been over a year working with her Scott. I think she would have said something by now.”

“Have you said something?”

She shakes her head. “Of course not! I don’t know if she feels the same.” She sucks in a breath, because that’s as good as flat out admitting to Scott that she has feelings for Emmy—something he already knows, but that she’s been denying. “Besides in case you forgot, I’m pretty focused on winning the Olympics.”

Scott is laughing again, shaking his head as he skates away from her to his water. “Maybe she’s just as ridiculous as you are. Or, maybe she’s respecting that you’re training for the Olympics?”

She hates when he makes good points.

**  
They do a fluff piece with CBC right before Nationals, about their return to competition, and the success they’ve had this season. She’s sitting on a stool, butted up right next to Scott’s, bright lights and cameras trained on the two of them. Her media smile is plastered on as thickly as her makeup.

“We owe a lot of our success to the team we have behind us,” she says.

Scott nods next to her in agreement. “We completely changed the way we go about our skating and our dancing and we’ve found such an amazing team to help us get here. I’m still amazed by how much we continue to learn every time we come into the rink. Even though we’re the old guys,” he laughs.

“Speaking of being the old guys,” their interviewer laughs. “One of the members of your new team is actually an old friend of Tessa’s. Is that right?”

And then up on the screen behind them is a picture of a tiny Tessa and a tiny Emmy at the national ballet camp back in 1999, grinning at the camera in their leotards and tights. They are holding hands by the barre, waiting their turn for corner work. Tessa remembers being nervous, so Emmy had grabbed her hand and given it a squeeze. You’re the best one here, she’d said, giving a crooked smile. She must have had braces sometime in the last 18 years, Tessa muses.

Her hand goes to her chest, just above her heart, without her realizing. She’s never seen this photo before, not that she recalls, but the memory is so fresh in her head now that she’s seen it. It must be from her mom, or Emmy herself. She has no idea how they got a hold of it.

“You’ve changed up your style of choreography coming back, and it seems to have paid off,” the interviewer says. “And a lot of that is thanks to your choreographer, Emmy Snow, who danced with the National Ballet and has worked on choreography with Montreal Danse and Concordia, but is new to the world of figure skating. And as it turns out she also danced with you, Tessa, when you were just kids.”

Tessa just nods.

“That’s almost cuter than our skating pictures from around then,” Scott says with a bright grin.

Tessa can feel the warmth flooding to her cheeks, so she looks down for a moment. “Emmy has been great to work with. She’s such a talented choreographer,” she says, trying to remain professional. Even though she knows her cheeks are bright red, enough to show through her makeup.

“And she and Tessa have gotten really close the past year or so,” Scott adds. She wants to shoot him and his big mouth in the foot. She nudges him subtly and he clears his throat. “It’s great to see them bounce choreography and ideas around.”

She blushes and stumbles along for the rest of the interview and calls Emmy after.

**  
“C’est bon,” Marie says from the boards.

Emmy nods in agreement, “That bit works for sure, but the next part doesn’t feel quite right. You’re travelling too far and too fast in those five steps and you lose the arms.”

Tessa and Scott nod simultaneously in agreement. They felt it, how they picked up too much speed on the steps, so their arm movements no longer fit and they can’t feel the emotion, the breath in the music.

Emmy is at the rink with them today, standing in between Marie and Patch at the boards while they all work together at translating this seasons early choreography onto the ice. She’s begun talking quickly, animatedly with Marie in French. They are both gesturing to mark out bits of choreography, trying to figure out how to slow the movements, while maintaining as much of the original choreography as possible.

Tessa was unaware Emmy spoke French quite so fluently and it is doing something to her stomach, it flips and pulls inside her. She bites her lip and is feeling decidedly unprofessional so she skates away, pretending that she’s just keeping her muscles warm.

Then Emmy is skating up behind her, she can tell it’s Emmy by the sound of her blades on the ice, the lack of surety in her strokes. She’s a solid skater in terms of the basics and she moves fairly easily on the ice, she just lacks the same grace and confidence she does in the studio. As Tessa turns around she sees her reach to steady herself. She takes Emmy’s hands in hers, just until she’s stopped and is standing still in front of her, though she knows she doesn’t actually need the help.

“Can I try something?” she asks, her hands moving away from Tessa’s. They go to her own hair to play with the braid she has hanging over her shoulder, like she’s anxious for the response.

Tessa nods.

Emmy moves behind her, standing close, her breath on Tessa’s neck, so she can maneuver her into the position she needs. Emmy puts her hands on Tessa’s elbows and then slides them down her forearms to her wrists, guiding her arms into position. Tessa lets herself be a puppet to the other woman’s puppeteer, even though they both know Emmy could have easily told her where she wanted her arms to be.

Then, she’s moving her right hand and is pushing the back of Tessa’s thigh. “Step forward onto your right leg here, like we did before, but press down into the ice instead of pushing out. I think that should slow the step. Then Marie can work the transition into the lift.”

She nods, but doesn’t make a move to step away just yet.

**  
“Stop!” Emmy says from across the ice. She doesn’t quite shout, but her voice is loud and crystalline and easily carries through the arena.

Scott is nodding in some sort of agreement as he asks, “You saw it too?”

Emmy skates closer to them, nodding grimly at Scott, and Tessa doesn’t understand.

“I thought that section was looking good. We really got the feel for that segment of the music down,” she says.

“It’s bothering you,” Emmy says simply.

Tessa sighs and shakes her head. She isn’t in pain. She’s been good about managing her movements, managing her pain levels. Since coming back she retrained herself in her stroke (as did Scott, for her benefit), even in how she walks and now she only gets minor flare ups of pain in her shins and usually only when they are overworked. Whatever it is she’s doing now it doesn’t hurt, not really. It just feels tight. Uncomfortable. It’s like the shadow of pain.

“It is. That third step there, it puts too much pressure on the anterior compartment in you shin. It’s bothering you.”

Scott is still nodding at Emmy, then he looks to Tessa. “She’s right, I felt you tense a bit there. If it’s bothering you now it’ll be too much by the end of the season.”

She knows she’s not going to win, not with both of them in agreement, but tries anyway. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It looks best this way.”

Emmy is shaking her head, skating in a small circling like she’s trying to stop herself getting frustrated. “No. I’m not letting you do something that will hurt you. Choreography is easy to alter.”

Scott skates next to Emmy, putting an arm around her shoulder and Tessa thinks she hears him say, _Thank you._

**  
“What are your plans for the weekend?” Scott asks Emmy as the three of them get ready to head home from the rink.

Emmy is pulling on her sweater, “Not much, one of the other instructors from Concordia is having a birthday thing tomorrow,” she shrugs, pulling her hair out from under the collar of her sweater . “But tonight I think I’m just going to veg at home and watch a movie. I’ve been wanting to watch the movie _Carol_ for a while and it’s on Netflix now.”

Scott’s eyes widen at that and she sees his lips quirk up into the tiniest hint of a smirk as he turns to face her. “_Carol_? Virtch, didn’t you mention wanting to watch that one?”

Tessa sighs, zipping up her own sweater, thinking she knows what he’s trying to do. “Yeah, it’s been recommended to me, but I haven’t gotten the chance to watch it yet.”

**  
“I swear it wasn’t a set up!” Scott says, after Emmy has left to go home, Tessa promising to see her there in an hour.

She huffs in the stale air of the arena foyer, marching toward the door, away from Scott. She’s only partially mad at him. It isn’t like she isn’t excited to spend time with Emmy in a more intimate setting. But she’s also nervous, her stomach filled with swarms of migrating butterflies, because maybe having dinner and a movie at Emmy’s apartment is too intimate.

What if she’s misreading the whole thing? Or what if she’s not? Honestly, she thinks the second option scares her more because she and Scott have the Olympics and she really just doesn’t think she’d be able to give her all to her sport and to a new relationship at the same time--she is such an all in kind of person. And, she thinks, she likes Emmy too much for a fling.

Besides if she is going to have a date, she wants it to be on her own damn terms, not because her supposed best friend is dropping heavy handed hints. This date or not date feels a bit coerced. So, yeah, she’s a little bit irritated with him.

“Felt kind of like one,” she says, as she pushes open the door to the parking lot, the humid late summer air hitting her in the face.

“Do you not want to?” Scott asks, earnestly. His face shifts into a hint of a frown. Where before he’d been excited, maybe a bit cocky, now he looks worried, like he’s afraid he inadvertently screwed up. “I thought you liked spending time with her...that’d it might be nice to do something in a more relaxed, personal setting...but if that really isn’t what you want, I’m sorry I pushed it there.”

Tessa sighs, “I do want to. I do...” She twists the rings on her middle finger around, thinking of how Emmy had paused, tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and wrung her hands together, before asking if Tessa would like to come over to watch the movie with her. She’s making dinner as well. “I’m just...I’m nervous okay...I don’t know if it means anything, or if I even want it to...it’s...I’m just nervous.”

**  
Emmy’s apartment is warm, just like her. The walls of her living room are painted yellow, which Tessa would have assumed she’d hate but somehow it just works. Works with the photos completely covering nearly one entire wall—mostly dancers, she wonders if any are Emmy herself. Gives a little spunk to the wall that is almost completely floor to ceiling bookshelves in a dark stained wood. The couch is a plush red, with far too many throw pillows. It’s eclectic and totally Emmy, and Tessa loves it.

It’s just so cozy. Tessa can picture Emmy curled up on the couch in one of her oversized knit sweaters, reading one of the many books lining the wall. She spots the yoga mat rolled up in the corner of the room and imagines Emmy stretching after a long day of dance classes, maybe with the TV playing _Friends_ reruns in the background (Emmy mentioned once she likes to watch old sitcoms when she’s only half paying attention to the TV).

Just then Emmy comes out of the adjoining kitchen with two glasses of wine. Tessa raises an eyebrow at her.

“Just a bit,” she says with a small shrug. “You aren’t fully back into your season yet.”

Tessa smiles and accepts the drink, it’s light with a bit of a floral taste. The smile Emmy gives her when she takes a sip relaxes her more than the wine. Then Emmy takes a sip of her own, and Tessa realizes they are both just standing in the space between the kitchen and living room—neither, it seems, entirely sure how to proceed.

“I really like your curtains,” Tessa says, after a few beats of quiet and another sip of wine. And it seems like such an absurd statement, particularly given that the curtains weren’t even amongst the list of things she first noticed. She’s not entirely sure what has come over her.

Emmy looks about as surprised by Tessa’s comment as she was, and laughs a little. “Oh, thanks. I actually got them because they kind of match the carpet.”

She stops. Her eyes go wide and Tessa watches as a deep red blush rises in her cheeks. Tessa nearly chokes on her sip of wine as they both realize what’s been said.

Then Emmy bursts out laughing. It’s deep and infectious and Tessa can’t hold back her own snort.

“Oh my god,” Emmy makes out breathlessly through another peel of laughter. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“I can’t believe I complimented your curtains,” Tessa says through her own small giggle.

And just like that any lingering tension has entirely disappeared.

**

They’re relaxed on the couch, close enough to be cozy, but not to be considered cuddled. The grilled chicken salad Emmy made them for dinner is long finished, as are their glasses of wine, and their movie is reaching its conclusion. Emmy is curled up with her feet tucked under her, her knee brushing against Tessa’s leg. Tessa shifts, moving herself just a fraction closer and tucking her own leg underneath herself.

But as she moves she feels a tightness in her shin and winces a bit in discomfort. Emmy, of course, notices. She unfolds her legs and sits up straighter.

Patting her lap she says, “Here, gimme your legs?”

Tessa is already shaking her head before the question is finished. “What? No, it’s fine.”

She pats her thighs again. “Come on Tess, you’re sore and I can help. Besides, doesn’t it help to have them elevated anyways?”

Tessa raises her eyebrows, asking a silent how do you know?

“Tess, I’ve been dancing for 23 years, the last decade of that in a fairly professional capacity. I studied dance physiology and I’ve dealt with my own injury...I know how to help, and I hate to see you uncomfortable when I know I can do something.”

And at that Tessa relaxes and shifts herself on the couch so she can drape her legs over Emmy’s lap. It isn’t that a large part of her doesn’t want it to have been a flirtatious offer, made just to have that closer physical contact. But that part, the part of her that wants to cuddle closer, to have Emmy’s hands on her and her own hands on Emmy, that part scares her a bit. So, Emmy’s appeal to her more logical side, an offer that she can pretend to file under just a member of their team looking out for her health (she’s knows it’s not that but she can pretend) gets her to agree. It’s just like physio.

Except it’s nothing like physio. Even though Emmy is massaging her muscles in the exact same pattern her physiotherapist does, working the muscles in similar ways. Her touch is much gentler, exploratory almost. It sends shivers through her and Tessa forces herself to take a deep breath and relax. It’s nothing like physio. Not with how the lights are turned down and the credits from their movie play in the background.

All she can do is watch Emmy’s hands as she works her shins and calves, thumbs pressing into just the right places. She focuses on the tattoo on Emmy’s forearm, the inside of her wrist. It’s a series of wispy lines making up the outline of a woman, how you’d begin a sketch. Her back is arched, and she appears to be on pointe, one set of pointed toes tucked into her knee--she might be mid turn. Tessa’s seen this tattoo before, of course, but she’s never studied it so closely, it’s beautiful, the lines of the dancer’s body so fluid you can almost see the movement.

Tessa can’t help but reach out and run her finger along the lines of the tattoo, hardly realizes she’s doing it. “This is beautiful,” she says, when Emmy looks at her. “Is there a story behind it?”

Emmy’s hands stop moving but she keeps them on Tessa’s legs. “Thanks. She’s my ballerina and I really love how she turned out. I had the picture for her in my head forever, but when I drew her it was never quite right. Uh, and then when I was doing my master’s the girl I was seeing was a visual arts student and she helped me sketch her out one night. I got the tattoo two days later.”

Tessa’s finger stills on Emmy’s arm. She’s feeling quite a few things at once. First, a rush of relief for the fact that she now knows for certain now that Emmy has dated a woman and this information definitely increases her chances with her. But…“You must have really cared about her,” she says, taking a deep breath. “To get a tattoo for her.” Tessa’s never had a relationship with that much depth, love—aside from Scott and that’s a completely different love, an entirely different context and she still won’t even get the Olympic rings tattooed for him, even though he’s asked a dozen times.

But then Emmy is shaking her head and her hand moves from Tessa leg to her hand, grasping it loosely. “No,” she shakes her head again. “No. It wasn’t...no I didn’t get it for her. It wasn’t for her. If it was for anyone, it would be my mom who inspired me to dance. But, no...uh...none of my tattoos are for anyone but me.”

Tessa lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and ignores why she is so relieved by this. “How many do you have?” she finds herself asking, curious. “I know you have the one on your leg and your dancer.”

Emmy smiles, sitting up a little more, shifting a little closer. “Four,” she says, her smile growing. “The one on the back of my leg I got when I was 18, after surgery on my achilles. The flowers and vines coming from the scar are like regrowth...uh, like recovery and finding inspiration everywhere. Then of course I have my dancer, she’s sort of a tribute to my mom. And then I have my muse which is a big one across my back...one of the Greek muses Terpsichore--she’s the goddess of dance and mother of the sirens and honestly that one is my favourite even though it has the least meaning. And then I have a Martha Graham quote around my ribs—it reminds me that for me dance is all about the story.”

Tessa debates whether or not she should ask to see them, she wants to.

**

Emmy is dancing in the Montreal Fringe festival and Scott gets them tickets to go watch her performance. Tessa doesn’t think she takes her eyes off Emmy the entire time she’s on the stage. Can hardly take a breath.

She’s mesmerizing. Her dancing is so powerful and at one point Tessa is sure she defies gravity with the height she manages on a barrel turn. But it’s the story she tells that really wins her over. It’s what they’ve loved so much about her choreography, the storytelling—Tessa has pages of character notes for their free dance. But seeing Emmy telling a story that’s her own is something else entirely.

Emmy told her, when she found out they were coming, that her solo in the show was in memory of her mom and all that she had inspired Emmy to achieve, even while suffering through mental illness. Tessa treasured this bit of personal information that Emmy shared with her, honoured that she trusted her with it. The piece is heart-wrenching but stunning.

“Wow!” Scott says as they leave the auditorium. They are planning on waiting for Emmy near the greenroom doors with flowers and an offer for dinner—though Tessa is afraid Scott will bail and leave the two of them alone. “She’s incredible. I can’t believe she’s our choreographer...we really lucked out.”

“Yeah,” Tessa nods, as the navigate the crowd and head deeper into the building.

“She’s beautiful,” Scott says, nudging her in the ribs.

“Yeah,” she says, a little breathless.

“You’re not going to deny it anymore?” Scott laughs. They’ve reached the hall to the greenroom.

“No,” she lowers her voice to a whisper. “I think she likes me back.”

Scott laughs, he actually snorts. Doesn’t even try to hold it in. “I can’t believe it took you nearly two years to figure this out.”

“Scott,” she scoffs. “It’s not that simple.”

He shakes his head right before knocking on the greenroom door. “You know, one of you has to make a move eventually or in five years you’re going to be calling me to tell me the two of you are moving in together but you don’t know if it means anything.”

“I hate you,” she huffs.

**

She’s meeting Emmy at the studio. It’s late. There are no classes running, but she needs to dance. She needs to move to music that isn’t the two songs she will have on a loop for the next half year. She needs to dance without thinking.

It’s been a brutal week with training their new programs. They fought hard for their free dance program choice and this week has made them question their decision. She could tell Marie and Patch weren’t as enamoured by the concept, they were missing something, just not hitting the mark like they needed. It’s been weighing on her all week. And then Jordan had to bail on coming to visit for a girls weekend (one of the last she’ll really get before everything narrows down to the Olympics) because of work.

As she walks through the Montreal streets, bustling with activity on a warm Friday night Tessa can feel her anxiety rising, building up from the week, can feel the tension of it coiling in her muscles, the stress of the Olympics already looming in. She’s starting to question whether or not they made the right choice in coming back.

“I need to dance,” she’d told Emmy on the phone yesterday. “I can’t think...I can’t...I need a dance class to take my mind off this week.”

She could hear Emmy’s hum over the line, could picture her biting at her lip in thought. “There aren’t any classes I could get you in tomorrow...but I can stick around after my last class? No one else will be there, but I have keys to lock up and we can do choreo or just move, fool around, make shit up...whatever you need.”

“Yeah,” she nodded even though Emmy couldn’t see. “Yeah, that would be amazing. Thank you.”

Now she’s here, at the studio, the same one she’d been reintroduced to Emmy at nearly two years ago. She pushes open the main door and then locks it behind her, like Emmy had instructed her and starts to head up the stairs. Though, unlike the first time she came here this time she’s early.

Once she gets to the second floor she can hear music softly drifting out of the open classroom door, the same one Emmy was in that first night. She slowly approaches the room, careful not to make too much noise as she walks down the hall. She’s not sure why she doesn’t want to make her presence known yet, but something inside her is telling her to proceed cautiously. When she gets to the door and peers inside, she’s glad she didn’t disturb the room’s sole occupant.

Emmy is dancing in the middle of the room, and the song that had been softly playing comes to a stop. She keeps dancing. In the quiet of the empty studio Tessa can hear a different kind of soundtrack. She can hear every creek of the sprung wood floor as Emmy moves across it. Can hear the squeak of her bare toes against the Marley. Can hear each breath she takes as she fills the space with her movement, her story. It’s beautiful. More so even than if there were music.

Emmy doesn’t notice she’s there until Tessa takes a step into the room. She falters in her dancing and comes to a stop, her hand falling to her heart. She’s just in dance shorts and a sports bra and Tessa can see the rise and fall of her chest, her stomach, as she works to slow her breathing. Her cheeks and chest are flushed red and her hair is half falling out of her ponytail. Tessa can see the tattoo on her ribs, script right under the line of her sports bra but she isn’t close enough to read it. She catches a glimpse in the mirror of a larger coloured work between her shoulder blades. She’s not sure she’s ever been so into tattoos.

She’s probably staring, but she can’t quite bring herself to feel bad about it. She realizes now Scott was right, she has been ridiculous denying the extent of her feelings, not doing anything about them.

“Hi,” Emmy says, soft and still a little breathless. “How long have you been here?”

“You’re beautiful,” is what she says in response. She thinks, for a split second, to correct herself to say that was beautiful. But she said what she felt, what she meant, so she doesn’t.

Emmy smiles, and it is everything. But then she’s shaking her head, taking a step closer. “I think,” she starts, looking Tessa directly in the eyes. “In a beauty contest you definitely win.”

Tessa takes a step further into the room and let’s her bag fall from her shoulder to the floor. She feels like she’s on autopilot as her legs carry her into the room, her body working for her, not letting her overthink anymore. “I think that’s probably a subjective opinion.”

Emmy watches, unmoving from her spot as Tessa makes her way toward her. “Tess,” she says, not quite as a question, not quite a statement but something in the middle. She says it in a way that acknowledges the change in atmosphere in the room. She understands what Tessa’s intentions are and she’s making sure it’s really what she wants to do. All that conveyed in just one syllable.

Then Tessa is standing right in front of her. She can feel her heart beneath the cage of her ribs, beating wildly. Filled with nervous anticipation. Like the moments before she steps on the ice in competition. She doesn’t know what to say or do from here, she feels like any words she could muster up to express how she’s feeling would fail her, so instead she brings her hand up and traces the lines of Emmy’s tattoo, the one right there on that sensitive skin below the band of her bra.

She can’t bring herself to look down, away from her face so she says, “What does this one say?”

Emmy lets out a little laugh, because of course the words she says next are so perfectly fitting for the moment. “The body says what words cannot.”

It really is perfect. And it’s exactly the push she needs to close the gap between them. To come together after two years of dancing around each other.

Tessa leans in and kisses Emmy. Her lips press softly at first, a little hesitant but then Emmy meets her and deepens the kiss. She’s kissing her after nearly two years of build up and it is exactly that feeling she’s been chasing. There are no fireworks, no light going off behind her closed eyes, it's not a spark like an electric jolt. It’s just a feeling that swells over her. Warm and comforting. It’s so close to that feeling she gets on competitive ice. The excitement and nerves swishing together. The feeling of being entirely present, of feeling like you’re the only two people that matter. The feeling of chasing the moment, the win and achieving it. It’s perfection.

She can feel every movement of Emmy’s lips against hers. Can feel how she parts her lips with her tongue. How Emmy’s hand comes up to grasp at the back of her neck, her fingers threading into her hair. And yeah, it really is perfect.

**

When they finally pull apart Tessa emotions begin to catch up with her. She feels completely whole, entirely enraptured, she wants to kiss Emmy again and again. She wants to live in that feeling forever. But she also wants the Olympics. And it’s not that she thinks she can’t have both, it’s that she knows she can’t give either the commitment they deserve at the same time. She owes it to Scott, to herself, to give everything she has to the last few months of their final Olympic journey.

She can feel the tears prickling at her eyes, not yet ready to fall. Because god she wants to go for it, for once she really does. But she knows she can’t, not right now. Maybe kissing her was a huge mistake.

Bless Emmy and her ability to read Tessa. “You have the Olympics,” she says simply. Tessa doesn’t miss how she sags a bit as she says it, but there is no resentment, no disappointment to her tone.

Tessa grabs for her hands, pulling her in, keeping her close. “It’s...it’s not that I don’t want...it’s not a no. I just…I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to win the Olympics,” Emmy says it with such surety.

Tessa opens her mouth to say something. To argue maybe, or to apologize for kissing her when she doesn’t think it will be able to lead anywhere else—not now—even if she desperately wants that.

Emmy is shaking her head and threading her fingers in between Tessa’s. “You’re going to win, Tess. You’re going to be brilliant, both of you. And I’ll be cheering for you, and I’ll still be here...probably in this studio if we’re honest...when you’re done.”

Tessa smiles at that.

“And for the record, I’m glad you kissed me,” Emmy says, before kissing Tessa one last time, wrapping one hand around the back of her neck, the other on her lower back to pull her in flush.

**  
Everything narrows down to the Olympics.

It’s just her and Scott and a series of three and four minute moments. Chasing the win.

They take things one training day, one competition at a time but always with the Olympic Rings at the end of their field of sight.

**  
Over the course of their final season of Olympic training the CBC films a documentary about the creation of their Olympic free dance program.

Emmy is in it of course. Talking about the choreographic process. Tessa listens in as she films her final interview, a month before the Olympics. She’s still blown away by the passion with which Emmy talks about choreography.

“This was Tessa and Scott’s passion project,” she says, smiling at the camera. “They knew what they wanted to do, knew the feelings they wanted it to convey. I’m just lucky I got to be a part of it. We created the story they wanted to tell...it was all just a matter of finding the right movements that ba-da-da to really hit and draw you in.”

**  
Tessa finds her after, pulls her into an empty hallway.

“You should be there,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Emmy raises her eyebrows in question.

“You’ve been such a huge part of this program...you should be there. At the Olympics.”

“Tess,” Emmy says shaking her head then grabbing Tessa’s hands. “This was all you guys, I was just a little part.”

Tessa sighs, bites at her lip trying to find the right words. “I want you to be there,” she says. “I would mean so much to me if you could be there...in the stands.”

Emmy is smiling, she opens her mouth to say something, but Tessa barrels on. “I can figure out your flights and accommodations...I just would love if— ”

Emmy stops her. “Tess, if you want me to be there,” she squeezes her hands. “There is nowhere I’d rather be.”

**  
The room is a sea of red and white, moving in a steady ripple. The waves take on the sound of cheers. They are swept up into warm arms, tossed around in a storm of people, and hugs, and cheek kisses, and congratulations whispered into their ears.

They had won and she was elated. Wrapped up in his arms after their final pose she felt like she was flying and that she’d never come back down to earth. But now, she is exhausted, her legs feel leaded down and barely carry her anymore, so she lets herself float. She is trying to find the one face she most wants to see, the familiar smile that has gotten her through so much of the past few years. She is searching out dark eyes, hoping they will anchor her.

Scott comes up beside her, wrapping an arm loosely around her shoulder, “Your girlfriend is over there,” he nods his head towards the far corner of the room where she sees Emmy standing nestled in between her mom and Jordan. She and Jordan have their heads bowed and are talking animatedly, each holding a tall can of Molson.

“She’s not my—” she cuts herself off, she doesn’t really know what they are, or what’s going to happen now. “She’s not really my girlfriend.”

He smiles and shakes his head with a soft affection, “But you want her to be?”

She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth and draws in a deep breath through her nose. She looks back up to where Emmy is standing with her family and catches her looking back at her. Her amber eyes catch her, pull her into their warmth. A grin spreads across Emmy’s face, scrunching her eyes as her cheeks push upwards. She can’t help but smile back, and blow a playful kiss.

“You like her, Tess,” Scott says from next to her. “I’ve been around the past two years, you like her a lot. More than I’ve seen you like anyone—except maybe me, of course.”

She shakes her head at him, but then looks at the genuine smile he sports. The one that lights up his eyes, so that they almost look green like hers.

“I do, I really do,” she says finally, her voice catching a bit on the words once they’ve reached the tip of her tongue.

He pulls her in closer, and kisses the top of her head, “I want you to be happy, T. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she says and she means it—in so many ways.

“Well Virtch,” he lets her go and pushes her forward, “it’s been long enough, go get your girl.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave love/hate/questions in the comments. Or come yell at me on Twitter @awakeanddreami1


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